


No Rest For The Wicked

by DefinitelyNotStraight



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Monster Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Peter Lukas Being a Bastard, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:34:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27282016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DefinitelyNotStraight/pseuds/DefinitelyNotStraight
Summary: Jon Sims just wants it all to be over.Literally no one else agrees with that.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 6
Kudos: 152





	No Rest For The Wicked

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in like an hour. Not beta read.  
> Heavy angst and suicidal themes. Mentions of vomit.   
> Just not a happy fic.   
> Please, please be safe.   
> Credit for the idea goes to my Twitter bad influence.

1.

Jon wants to die. 

That's nothing new, he was never exactly the poster child for good mental health, he has scars across his thighs, wrists and hips that anyone who saw would know what they were. 

But he never could bring up the courage to do it properly. To cut deep enough and watch his life flow from him along with crimson. To swallow down enough pills to make him anything more than violently sick. To mix bleach into his lemonade, or just chug it from the bottle. 

Jonathan Sims looks at razor blades and prescription bottles like most people look at old friends. 

He looks at bleach and rope like he is hungry. 

Jonathan Sims wakes up after the Unknowing, and he has the courage now. He's excited, even while alarm bells and images of Martin's anguished face flash through his skull. 

Martin would be better without him, he knows this. Tim had told him so.

Tim. 

Jon swallows, blindsided by grief and guilt, and he takes a few more painkillers than he usually does.

He pretends it's because his chronic pain is really bad this morning (which, it is), but it's really because he remembers that it's much easier to stop the survival instinct in his brain when he's already high on medication. 

He doesn't remember much else for a while, but he ends up at the Institute (doesn't he fucking always? How he wishes to escape it.)

(He smiles when he remembers that he will escape it soon.)

He's in his office, the door shut and locked tight. There's a photo of himself, Sasha, Tim and Martin on the shelf, and he debates turning it over, so that they don't have to watch him do this. 

Tim hated him towards the end, and maybe Sasha did too. Martin definitely should hate him, he's the only one left standing, and he's trapped under Peter Lukas' thumb. 

Jon laughs, high pitch and bitter and full of agony. Let them watch, let this be his apology, his gift to them. Let them watch Jon, who caused them all that pain and suffering, watch him die painfully by his own hand. 

He runs a finger over the razor blade in his hand, barely feels the deep slice or the pain. 

It knits itself together immediately. 

No, no, no. Please, let him have this. Jon's eyes well with tears because he is finally ready for this, finally, finally, able to do what everyone wanted and maybe be forgiven. 

He doesn't waste time, slices it vertically up his wrist, feels pain this time but not as much as he thought he might. Blood pours, and its darker than he remembers it being. Almost black with the darkness of the red pouring from him like a waterfall, and he feels calm for a second. 

Happy, even. At peace. 

A grotesque sound rumbles from his arm, and the blood just stops, skin stitching together and sounding entirely too much like Jane Prentiss' worms for comfort. 

He falls to his knees, sobbing and tossing the blade to the side. It's clearly useless.

The pathway he tried so hard to bolt shut is torn open, and he hears Elias' voice gentle in his head.

*"It won't be that easy, darling."*

\----------------------

2.

It didn't even scar, which was disappointing. 

Jon tries again a few days later, this time in a dark corner of the Archives, where no one should get to, even if they got horribly lost. 

He has a few bottles of pills, and a bottle of vodka. He isn't partial to vodka, but he hasn't been able to taste much lately from his state of dissociation, so he starts swallowing down the pills. Washes them down with liquid that burns but in the best way.

One bottle gone. Then another. Then the last two. All washed down with vodka that he mixed bleach into, just in case.

He feels weird. Lightheaded, sleepy. Violently sick. 

He refuses to vomit, swallows down all that rises in his throat as he gags. He won't let this time fail, he can't. 

"Oh, little Archivist. What a sight you are." A woman's voice, echoing and gives him images of spirals behind his eyelids. His skin feels like its buzzing around his bones, and he knows that feeling too well.

Helen. 

What the fuck was Helen doing here? And when had he toppled on to his side?

Long fingers pinched his nose, and his arms felt like they were weighed down with stones. He gags again, and can't close his mouth as his body fights him to breathe, and he throws up all he had consumed onto the archive floor. 

He is vomiting for what feels like years, and it burns so much more coming back up than it did going down. 

He is completely out of it, and agonized because why won't these bastard avatars just let him die?

Elias, he expected. 

But Helen too?!

He is lifted into strong arms, his face is buried into dark curls that felt like feathers and barbed wire all at once and smelt like mango and hand sanitizer. He is passing out as he hears the whirring of the familiar yellow door, and the gentle fingers that rub down his back.

"You have more to do yet, Archivist. And you won't be alone."

\-------------------

3.

Blades - failure. 

Overdose - failure. 

Jon had woken up dizzy and sick, in his own bed, with a spiral drawn on a note beside him, along with a cinnamon bun. 

He almost smiled at the gift, which she definitely chose for the swirl in it.

He frowned and thought this over.

He didn't want to die anymore, but he would prefer that to being the Institute's puppet. 

Plus, Martin seemed to hate him now. Which he had every god given right to do, but it still hurt that he was avoiding him. 

The voice in his head that sounds entirely too much like Elias (even though the pathway between them is firmly shut) tells him that that's what he gets. That he did this, that he could have had Martin to himself if he had just been better, a better Archivist. A better Avatar. 

He hates when Elias is correct, even if it's the version of him that's in his head. 

He is starting to miss Elias, which definitely means that he is insane.

But he misses that Elias could make him stop thinking, could rewrite and manipulate his thoughts. They hurt less that way, when Jon was just a puppet for Elias to toy with. 

In every way. 

He swallows and shakes away the flashes of the 'encounters' he has had with Elias before, to keep his assistants safe. 

Not that it worked.

An idea sparked between his eyes and it burned.

He was part of The Eye now, so what if he starved it?

Surely it would kill him, and no one could force him to do the statements, could they?

He lasted three weeks, the agony behind his eyes blinding him, his body ached and stung, and the glowing green eyes attacked him with venom. 

He was hurting, and he was deteriorating. He couldn't move if he tried, and which he is in absolute agony, the worst way he could imagine to die, he is happy too. That this will finally just be over. 

His eyes slip closed, and he felt out a breathe. 

"Jon!" Someone is yelling, and oh no, they're scared. Terrified, and The Eye latches onto it with everything it has, and feeds on it.

No, no, no!

But Jon can't stop it as someone cups his face, taps his cheeks and tries to make him open his eyes.

He knows he is almost grey in skin tone, that he has lost more weight than anyone should be able to survive. 

The fear is sweet and tastes of melon and honey and cream. The Eye feeds like a starved animal, which it is in that moment, and Jon hates how good it feels to just let it feed. 

Basira is who is holding him.

"I know it's awful, but you have to stay. Don't make me lose you too." She tells him as he drifts out of consciousness, letting him keep sapping at her fear like an infant to it's mother. 

He asks if she said that when he wakes again, and she tells him to fuck off. He figures it was a dream.

\-----------------

4.

Melanie stabs him. 

Not that he minds, or cares. Just prays it will finally kill him. 

Maybe it will work if it's someone else?

It doesn't, and he tries not to cry angry tears when the Eye heals him. 

\------------

5.

He tosses himself into The Lonely. Yes, to rescue Martin, but he does intend to stay and die there. Where The Eye can't get him.

He intends to save the man he loves, toss him back out to where Basira is waiting and will keep him safe, and he intends to die. 

Martin can see that, because of course he can, and refuses to let go of Jon's hand.

They leave together, Jon angry that everyone seems to be against him dying. Against him having peace. 

But, he thinks, if he makes Martin feels safe. He will survive this hell a little longer.


End file.
